3. Children Of Divers Kind
The sight of Mercutio's wounded face troubled Benvolio, although he said nothing about it for the rest of the day. When lessons were over, Abram appeared from the waiting room to escort him and Romeo home. As they pinned their cloaks around their necks, Benvolio saw Valentine toddle through the crowd of boys to wrap his arms around Mercutio's legs, while Domenico drew Friar Salvatore aside for a moment of private conversation. Abram gently nudged Benvolio's shoulder, and he turned to follow his cousin out of the schoolhouse.
Romeo, who always adored the moment when lessons were over for the day, chattered excitedly about their afternoon fencing lesson. Benvolio nodded, and pretended to look interested, but he could not force his thoughts away from the terrible bruises on his friend's face.
His distraction carried over into the fencing lesson, and earned him several bruises of his own. After Benvolio had fluffed an easy parry for the third time, the fencing master stopped and gazed down at him with a sigh.
"Your mind is elsewhere, Benvolio," he said. "I will teach you no more today, for that would waste time. Go to the edge of the room and run while I finish Romeo's lesson."
Benvolio saluted, placed his foil in the rack, and began to trot around the salon. He did not mind the exercise, for even as his feet found their pace, his thoughts soon flowed in their accustomed track.
After supper, he was not surprised when Abram appeared, summoning him to Uncle Tiberio's study. Benvolio arranged his face into a pleasant expression, and knocked on the great doors.
"Come in."
He pushed the door open and slipped inside. Uncle Tiberio sat at his desk at the far end of the room. Benvolio bowed. "You called for me, Uncle, and I am here."
Uncle Tiberio nodded. "So thou art. Come closer, Benvolio."
Benvolio moved to stand in front of Uncle Tiberio's desk. Uncle Tiberio laced his fingers together and regarded Benvolio with a strange look on his face.
"Thy fencing master came to me today and said that he perceived a troubled mind in thee, child. Wilt thou tell me of thy distress?"
Benvolio did not know where to begin. He hung his head and examined the fine pattern of the carpet. Uncle Tiberio waited patiently. The silence weighed down on Benvolio's shoulders until he could stand it no longer. "Mercutio was hurt today," he murmured. "His face was all bruised and swollen, and he said that his father thrashed him for fighting yesterday."
"Ah." Uncle Tiberio looked surprised, but not angry, and he leaned back in his chair.
"Can you help him, Uncle? Can you tell Mercutio's father not to do that again?"
Uncle Tiberio pursed his lips, then let out a long sigh. "I am pleased to see such compassion in thy heart for thy friend, Benvolio," he said, "but thou must know that there is naught that I can do. Rinuccini is not a kinsman or a client to be spoken to thus, nor even one with whom I do business. How he chooses to discipline his son is not my affair."
"Yes, Uncle." Benvolio tried not to let his disappointment show.
Uncle Tiberio shifted some papers on his desk. "Mercutio is a flighty child," he said, "and perhaps he has earned his correction. I will not discourage thee from pursuing friendship with him, for he is of noble blood and kin to the Prince, but I caution thee not to look to him for a model for thy own behavior. Instead, if thou dost truly wish to help him, then let thy own conduct be a model for him. Teach him to bear himself like a young gentleman, and his father will not need to chastise him."
"Yes, Uncle." Benvolio could see that there was no point in discussing the matter further, although he could not see how he could curb Mercutio's rambunctious spirits.
Uncle Tiberio reached across the desk and ruffled Benvolio's hair. "I am glad that we have spoken of this, Benvolio," he said. "Thou art truly becoming a man of mercy and Christian love, and I am glad of that."
The bruises faded from Mercutio's face in time, and Benvolio was glad of that. He did his best to be a model of good behavior, although he was not entirely certain if he was making a difference. Mercutio would still fight Tybalt if he felt provoked, and Tybalt did enjoy going out of his way to insult Romeo and Benvolio. Both Romeo and Mercutio usually responded to these insults with their fists, which led to a quick scuffle in the schoolyard. Benvolio remembered his duty to be a model of Christian love and tried to ignore Tybalt's taunting. But he could not stop a hot flush of shame from rising in his face, and it was this, more than anything else, that led Mercutio to knock Tybalt down in fury.
As the boys grew bigger and stronger, they left marks on each other during these fights, so that it was not unusual for one or more children from each growing faction to troop back into the schoolroom disheveled and sweaty, nursing some spot on their bodies that would blossom purple the next morning.
"Why dost thou do this?" Benvolio asked Mercutio one day. "Thou needst not fight on my behalf all the time."
Mercutio frowned. "Someone must. Tybalt insults thee, and thou art a model of forbearance, but I can see that it pains thee. I cannot stand to see him treat thee so. Whenever he flings his words at thee, or spits on thee, or tosses dust in thy eyes, thou dost look as if thou wouldst weep straightaway. Thou art my friend, Benvolio, and I do not want to see my friend so miserable."
Benvolio could not help but smile at that. "Thou art a puzzle, Mercutio Rinuccini. Thou art the cleverest person I know, yet thou canst not tell the difference between love and war."
Mercutio shrugged, and tossed a small rock into the air. "Even the cleverest person does not know everything. Perhaps thou wilt teach me?"
"Perhaps, if I can." Benvolio considered the issue for a moment. "Tybalt does not always attack with his fists," he said. "Sometimes he uses insults to pick a fight."
"Either way, it wounds thee."
"But, perhaps thou couldst return his attacks in kind," Benvolio went on. "Tybalt is bigger than thou, and often I fear for thee when thou dost fight him. But no one can match thy tongue and thy wit. Thou couldst match Tybalt jest for jest without the slightest effort. Couldst thou not do that instead, when he insults us?"
Mercutio thought about it. "I could," he allowed. "It would be most excellent sport. Dost thou know that Tybalt's face turns purple when he knows that he has been outwitted?"
"Purple suits him well," Benvolio said with a laugh. "See that he wears that color often."
"I will still fight him if he tries to hit thee."
Uncle Tiberio had once said that the better part of valor lay in fighting only those battles one could win. Benvolio felt that this was probably a moment to content himself with the gains he had already made. "Very well. But do not hit him too hard."
Mercutio grinned. "The lightest of caresses, dear friend."
After Mercutio made that promise, the schoolyard became at once more peaceful and more interesting. Mercutio had always loved his studies, but now he pored over the books even more intensely, feeding his wit and imagination so that he could challenge Tybalt to ever more elaborate verbal duels. The good friars did not seem to mind this, as it lessened the number of fights they had to end. The contests of wit became something of a schoolhouse vogue, and some of the other boys soon joined in the fun.
To the surprise of many, the new game sparked Romeo's interest in his books. Where he had previously been an indifferent scholar, now he took to his studies with new enthusiasm, if only to keep up with Mercutio's compelling performances. Friar Salvatore declared that if the little boys kept on learning at their new rate, he would soon bring in others of his order to teach them Greek and French. Uncle Tiberio and Aunt Susanna glowed with pleasure over their son's new accomplishments, and Benvolio saw no need to explain the reason behind Romeo's successes.
The fistfights did not end entirely, of course, and Friar Salvatore still did his fair share of pulling squirming, shrieking boys apart. Even Benvolio found himself unable to avoid the occasional scuffle, though he came out of them well, as Mercutio had taught him how to fight. But what troubled him more than the odd split lip was that Mercutio still appeared at school looking as though he had been fighting, even when the schoolyard had been peaceful for days at a stretch. The marks were not always visible, but Benvolio could sometimes tell by the way that Mercutio walked or favored a limb that he was hiding an injury under his clothing.
Romeo was the only one who dared to ask Mercutio about his mysterious wounds, and that only once. Mercutio came to school one day with a swollen, purple lump on his head and a limp, and fidgeted through the lessons. It was clear that he was in pain, and he did not run with the other boys at recess.
"What happened to thy leg?" Romeo asked. "Thou canst barely walk."
"And what of thy head?" Benvolio added.
Mercutio looked startled, and tried to shift his weight so that his limp was less obvious. He could not prevent a sudden grimace, but then a sly smile spread across his face. "I have seen the fairies," he announced. "Last night, they flew in great swarms about my head. They are as brilliant and beautiful as the stars themselves – indeed, they resemble little twinkling stars come down to earth. They are the children of the stars and the fireflies, sparkling as the one, and small and delicate as the other. A great cloud of them surrounded me. I wanted to catch one and put it in a bottle, but they were ware of me and flew away as soon as I raised my hands."
Mercutio's description of the fairies was beautiful and absorbing, and it provoked much discussion among his friends. It was not until late in the evening that Benvolio realized that Mercutio had not actually answered their questions.
So the days of Benvolio's childhood passed in relative peace. Younger boys came to the Latin school, and Benvolio and his friends knew the pleasures of showing the baby classes how to grow beyond the initial separation from their mothers. Paris was preparing himself to sit for his university entrance examinations, a process that fascinated Mercutio. Often, he would spend entire recesses sitting at Paris's side and trying to follow the advanced texts that his cousin read.
"Canst thou possibly understand what he reads?" Romeo asked him.
Mercutio shrugged. "No. Not yet, at any rate. But I feel as if I could understand them when I am that old. I want to go to university one day."
"If any one of us will do it, surely it will be thee," Romeo said with a smile. Mercutio laughed, and then stopped abruptly, a worried expression creeping over his face.
"Wilt thou come to university with me?" he asked. "Thou and Benvolio. I do not know what I would do without my two dear friends at my side."
Romeo smiled. "I do not know if I am clever enough. But Benvolio might go with thee. He is almost as good at his books as thou art, and I think my father has it in mind to train him as a clerk."
"He can be my clerk when I have inherited my father's businesses and properties," Mercutio declared, and a pleasant warmth rushed through Benvolio when he said it.
Benvolio's dream of that future lasted until the summer that he was nine years old. The first crack was small, and it was not until many years later that Benvolio truly understood it for what it was.
It was a hot summer morning, a Sunday, and Benvolio filed into the church with Uncle Tiberio, Aunt Susanna, and Romeo. He paused in the doorway to shiver in delight at the cool air inside the great stone cathedral. As he did so, he caught sight of Giacomo Rinuccini entering the church with his sons in tow. Mercutio looked angry and a little bit frightened, but something else caught Benvolio's eye. Four-year-old Valentine had a black eye.
The priest's homily was long, and Benvolio's Latin was not yet quite good enough to follow it completely. He fidgeted, and snuck little glances over at Mercutio and Valentine, trying to determine what had happened. Valentine was too little to have gotten into a fight. Benvolio knew that, although Mercutio teased his brother as much as any boy, he did not strike him. He wondered if Valentine had fallen down, but that did not explain the anger and fear in Mercutio's face or the steely glint of Rinuccini's eyes.
Valentine, as uncomfortable as Benvolio, turned and saw him. He smiled and waved, and Benvolio waved back. Without a word, Rinuccini seized Valentine's wrist and roughly turned him away, crushing the boy against his leg to shut the distraction from his sight. Hot anger boiled up in Benvolio as he realized that Valentine's black eye must have come from his father. Benvolio shuddered, and turned his own attention back to the priest.
Mercutio's foul mood persisted into the next day. He barely spoke at all, save when Friar Salvatore asked him to recite. During the dinner break, he pushed his meat around and tore his bread into tiny pieces, but ate almost none of it. He could not be persuaded to join in the games at recess, but sat beneath a tree and brooded.
Benvolio would have dismissed it as a simple bad mood, such as they were all subject to on occasion, save for two things. He could not forget the scene at Mass the day before. And all day long, he had sat beside Mercutio on a bench, sharing a book. Normally, they sat pressed up against each other, but today, Mercutio seemed to have shrunk into himself and kept a sliver of distance between himself and Benvolio. Without a word, he had made it clear that he did not want to be touched. Much as this new distance puzzled Benvolio, he respected his friend's wishes and did not speak to Mercutio about it.